


fifteen thoughts of doom and love

by witchofcrows



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood and Gore, Disturbing Themes, Horror, Microfiction, Other, Surreal, i want all of my writing in one place and google docs is shit for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:06:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28199592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchofcrows/pseuds/witchofcrows
Summary: created out of first 15 prompts from https://www.writerswrite.co.za/ month of November





	fifteen thoughts of doom and love

**Author's Note:**

> created out of first 15 prompts from https://www.writerswrite.co.za/ month of November

It is like a rhythm of waves or sun, coming down and up, contraction and relaxation, muscle moving. It is electricity she remembers,pulling from one part to another, interconnected like a wire, like a city, like modern civilisation. It beats against the palm of her hand as she caresses it, if she can concentrate she can hear them all beating out of synch, beat, beat beat, behind the glass. Systole and Diastole, pump, pump. They say love and emotions are concentrated in the brain, the rationale but she knows there is something in these beats, the expression of love itself, and heart is not a labyrinth like brain. Which is why she is a heartfixer and not a brain fixer, because who has time to dab their finger in the molds and valleys and search for the right part and then knock out a memory or knowledge or very concept or self. She gently puts the heart in her hand on the pillow, watches it squirm in its important work and she grabs her lock picker tools. This will be a difficult patient. 

The wind carries secrets. It washes over the mouths of the sinners who whisper them into confession tables, over the dreams of the guilty lovers, over the fits of the dying. It will carry them forever upon its wings, to be frozen brittle in the Arctic, to be turned into a fire in volcanoes, to be washed in the sea waves. They will be held there in the purgatory of the wind, to be carried for eternity, untouchable, and immaculate and always perpetuating. 

Clarity is not a virtue it is not a sin, it perhaps is and is not. The diamond shines and through it we see the reality mirrored in its chiseled angles, but we do not call it more beautiful than a pearl (or a tree, or pouty lips, or a cloud hanging around the cyan purple gold of the evening sky). Perhaps we see things through and sometimes we do not. Paralysis, or decisiveness? Do we want to see the gnashing of the stars, their tendrils, soft bones cracking out of a corpse craving the warmness of else but their discarded flesh? Sometimes we do. We have to face the reality to protect our heart, to not bleed out as ghosts kiss our bleeding marks. It is no use seeing three as we hold a gun. Clarity is a tool, and tension. But no one can blame you for letting them close your eyes as they would to a corpse and hold your hand so you can let go and blur the lines that exist between unreality and being. 

A squiggling little noise, crack of an egg and a life is born in the vastness of this world, amongst the flowers and offerings and fluid that is silver and wrapping its nest in its warmth. It tweets and tweets and tweets for a mother or father or cuckoo that shall never come because it is many centuries too early. Were this a normal babe it would die now, carried away by the falcon or swallowed by earth, bones to be made into an accessory of kings and other leaders too keen on glittering things. It tweeted once again and stopped. This one was different, a desperate cry of a child.   
And a human came. It is not in the nature of humans to refuse small helpless beings despite the few merry moments of cruelties. And so, it lived. 

It shines holiness, holily, emanating the holy throughout the field of holly. It burns to touch and feels like a waterfall and it crushes the unholy (these who had not been deemed holy through the years of golden wraith on their bruised fingers). Coals surround its holy body, burning and freezing and melting and boiling and condensing. It is of course, not in this universe or the copy of it, or the mirror of it, or derivative of it. But it is still felt and its miracle drips downwards into the throat of worshippers who become aesthetic and frenzied by their love. 

The carpet of sea is the corpses and wrecks of the monsters and humans and human monsters and monster humans who have been foolish enough to insult it.

The mountains and lakes molded by the hands of the creators, their little playground their boney, thin and long fingers grind the dirt and water alike, eyes primed for imperfections to their visions or so it is told in tales. Why are we so averse to our gods and creators being imperfect childrens ducking around with clay that is elements of the world? Do we fear that in the eyes of what we see as above us we may see the same cracks and soul as we hold? We forget that perfect ascendants would never sculpt life, in its irregularity, imperfections and spontaneity. 

… we are grasping for our straws… fighting to find the words… our tongues wriggle without sound (sometimes around each other)... something left unsaid? when did we replace our words with physicality? … gasps left in our knowledge in our communications, in our expectations…..

Do you wonder if the hush of tornado is the accumulated sins of the men who make the women cry just because they can? No you do not I suppose - it is a strange question and besides it is just a fucked up interaction of the pressures of the atmosphere that we breathe. It must connect sky and earth to be called such because we humans like to make fucked up words for phenomena and make sure we are only talking about a subset of occurrences in the world. Do you not think it is boring though? Seeing nothing but technical jargon behind and shutting your eyes to the poetic irony?

Used tea bags stick out of the garbage bin, akin to admission and remembrance of sin. Sugary and oozy, they form a membrane of flavours technical and natural at the bottom of their disposal. Permeating the room and then the special disposal sites. Out of the nets like escaping fish grow the vines of the combined flesh and smells and aromas and they spread like a fire. 

In the mornings you walk the dog. It is an adorable terrier who jumps at your leg and begs for the threats.  
Before lunch you walk the dog. you walk the border collie, golden and with sad drooping eyes. She does not ask for much even if you are ready to give.   
After lunch you walk the dog. Its scales are shining with mirth reflecting your visage back. It blinks slowly in order to shield its eyes from the burning moon.   
In the evening you walk the dog. Mist spills from its body and wraps you in the linen of paper and smoke. It feels wet to touch, like a decapitated octopus ready for feast.   
At night, you walk the god. You walk the god. You walk the god. 

It evaded me. Love, pain, suffering. Dancing all around me, a stone out of glass and sand and atoms. No emotion, other than emptiness and want and yearning. (This is short. Words drawing out. I suppose inspiration evaded me.)

Water flowed and with it so did Ophelia, surrounded by flowers, beautiful. Lilies, roses, sweet pea, daffodils, plumeria, tulips, smaragdine shimmering orchids, golden ore of the earth. Her sweet lips open in mock surprise, grasping onto the final gasps of air in these peaceful moments captured on canvas of the future. But she will never sink, never sink, never sink in this splendor and this beauty and she will yet drown on air and crows will eat her carcasses leaving behind a beautiful skeleton which will float on these waters forever.  
All hail, the death of a maiden lost! 

  
The Guide to Tests results as outlined by Her Lovely Divinity of Blue for this beautiful tradition of performance and guts and heart. 

  1. the best and prettiest, the Monster, the Beast. come hither my dragon and reach the skies.
  2. scholar you are for you have achieved excellence, your books shall become blade and the blade will be the blades upon which you walk horizons.
  3. tongue wranglers, you will subdue thine tongues and then these of your reflection’s and hold onto them and free them
  4. wasps. wasps. wasps. collect golden mice. 
  5. no. youre not supposed to be here. asymmetrical. foolish. heart-broken. powerful. leave leave leave leave leave
  6. xxx



  
When you see the skies fall, it will reveal the fabric of reality like ripping skin from muscle and tracing the movement of their fibers with your tongue. You will feel it all inside you, magenta so bright it burns into your eyes and changes their tint forever, makes them produce light, not just reflect and fraction it. Your tongue will taste magic and fire and incense, ringing. The water will fill your ears and splash in the inner snail of it and it will come alive as snakes. Walk away, merely walk away. The tear in reality will change nothing, just reveal something always underneath.


End file.
